


Strawberries & Cream

by missdibley



Series: The Red Nose Diaries [9]
Category: RND!Tom - Fandom, Red Nose Day Tom - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Fingering, Teasing, Voyeurism, Wimbledon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdibley/pseuds/missdibley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Forgive me, but you don’t see such good-looking and, excuse my language, shaggable people these days. Enjoy it. Enjoy each other. Love, that’s my sport. Well, that and tennis, anyway.” She winked at us. “Good day.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberries & Cream

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to "Table Tennis for Beginners".

“I beg your pardon, but aren’t you Tom Hiddleston?”

It was morning, and Tom and I were at Wimbledon, or rather, the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club for Wimbledon, when a smooth, silky voice piped up behind us. We turned around to find a distinguished looking woman standing before us. Her ash blonde hair was cut in a pixie, with bangs that fell rather like a sheaf of wheat over her left eye. She looked cool in a gray suit, and held a Ralph Lauren courtesy umbrella in her left hand as though it were a walking stick. Her question was for Tom, though her gaze ran over the two of us equally.

I felt like we looked good, Tom in his three-piece suit and a new striped shirt (I wanted desperately to take his straw hat and throw it in the bin when he wasn’t looking) and me in the white shirtdress that was buttoned all the way through the skirt (I’d checked the ones closest to the waist to make sure they unbuttoned easily). Still, though, I fidgeted a little, and smoothed down my hair which was frizzing in the cool, damp air.

Tom made a small bow as a way of introduction. “Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid so.” He gave an apologetic little laugh. “Have we met before? Forgive me if I don’t recall.”

The lady shook her head. “We haven’t, no. I’m just a fan, like many of the people here seem to be.” She turned around to see a few spectators stopping to ogle and sneak a picture, though no one dared interrupt our conversation to ask for a selfie with Tom.

“And you, dear?” She took my right hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Are you somebody too?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m not anybody at all.”

“I hardly think so. You two are probably the most attractive couple here.”

“Thank you.” I could feel myself blushing as I smiled up at Tom. “It’s mostly him, though. I’d say he’s the hot one.”

“Darling, you couldn’t be more wrong on that point.” Tom blushed and kissed me on the temple. He put an arm around me, resting his hand on my shoulder. I thought I saw a few flashes from cameras go off around us when he did that but, having been at the tournament since morning, I was starting to get used to the attention, getting used to being out in public as “the girl who is definitely not Tom Hiddleston’s house sitter”

“You remind me so much of me and my William, God rest his soul. We did have so much fun when we’d come here. Tom, you look like you’re about the same age as my William when we met. How old are you, dear?”

“34, ma’am, this past February.”

“Ah, perfect. A nice seasoned gentleman in his thirties.” She smiled at me. “That’s simply heaven in the sack, isn’t it?”

“I, um, what…?” I stared at her, then at Tom, who was staring at her as well.

“I used to have a nice little arrangement with Andy Murray, right after William passed. Earlier in his career, of course, long before he found success in his career and married that charming girl. What a delightful, energetic creature, that wee Andy. Some young men I find have a stamina that’s really quite deceptive. But give me someone older. I myself am built for comfort more so than speed.”

She sighed as she drew herself up, standing straight. Her bosom very nearly launched itself forward, almost filling the space between us.

“Forgive me, but you don’t see such good-looking and, excuse my language, shaggable people these days. Enjoy it. Enjoy each other. Love, that’s my sport. Well, that and tennis, anyway.” She winked at us. “Good day.”

Tom was in shock gasping with laughter, so much so that I practically had to carry him to Centre Court. I took his hat and umbrella and stored them under my seat while he said hello to the people sitting near us. In my lap I had the picnic basket we’d picked up when we first arrived at the stadium, digging around for a bit until I located two bottles of Evian and the infamous strawberries and cream. I handed Tom his water, then began to eat dessert.

“What was that?” Tom looked at me in shock, then drank a bit of water.

“I can’t believe, I just cannot believe it,” I murmured as I looked at Tom. “Tom Hiddleston, speechless! Who knew all it took was some surprise dirty talk from a stranger to take away his gift of gab? I’d also like to take this moment to point out that she was totally hot.” I sat back in my chair and waved a cream-covered strawberry in the air in triumph. “She was just the spitting image of Helen Mirren, wasn’t she?”

“Very much so. I’ve actually met Helen, and the resemblance was quite strong.” Tom took a deep breath and shook his head, then leaned towards me. I thought of feeding him a strawberry, but then felt self-conscious. I began to imagine the reaction to a picture of Tom, the world’s most eligible actor, eating strawberries out of the hand of a middle-aged Asian lady with unfashionably frizzy hair (stupid humidity). Tom looked at me questioningly when I handed him the dish and a clean fork from the basket.

“Eating strawberries and cream isn’t so romantic when you have to feed yourself.” Tom pouted. I sighed and reached out to squeeze his knee.

“Yes, I know that, and you know that, and you know who else knows that?” I raised my eyebrows at him. “The audience for the photos being taken by that photographer over there with the massive lens. Going public at Wimbledon is one thing, but the world? Are we ready?”

Tom looked serious as he took my hand in his. “Before I answer your question, I need you to answer one of mine.” He smiled when I rolled my eyes. “Do you love me?”

I looked at him, confused. “Of course I love you.”

“Good,” he nodded. “And I love you. I’d rather we focus on this, on the love, on building a relationship based on that and trust and respect, rather than on the nonsense we may encounter.”

“But it’s not just nonsense,” I shook my head. “I don’t want you to become less beloved, or lose out on opportunities, because you’re with me and not somebody who seems more… appropriate.”

“I hate that word, ‘appropriate’”. Tom rubbed the back of my hand gently. “What does that even mean?”

“It means there are any number of actresses or high accomplished professionals or humanitarians out there with big tits - don’t look at me like that, I know you’re a boob man - and perfect dark hair that doesn’t friz who will look perfect on your arm at the Oscars.”

Tom sighed, then leaned in and whispered in my ear. “But Carmen, darling, I don’t want any of them.” He bit my earlobe, then soothed it with a kiss. “I only want you.”

“Asshole.”

“Brat.”

It was then that the players made their way onto Centre Court, and Tom the Tennis Fan Boy took over as things got underway. I wish I could tell you what happened. I wish I could say I knew the score without having had to look up at the board at the end of the match, which was over in three straight sets.

But I couldn’t. And it was all because of the rain. Or rather, a pair of glasses.

There were rain delays throughout the morning, which didn’t affect us as much as our seats were covered. Some of our neighbors, however, would go warm up elsewhere in the stadium, or take a walk around the grounds.

“Cold, darling?” Tom shrugged off his jacket then draped it gently around my shoulders. “There. Better?”

I nodded, then looked up at the roof. “But if it’s going to rain, then why don’t the draw the cover and leave it?”

Tom followed my gaze. “I think it has something to do with the frequency of the rain. If it’s going to rain all day, then they’ll do it. But this off or on business, it will stay open.” He put on a pair of glasses to get a better look. I could feel myself getting wetter when I saw his face.

“Tom…” I whispered.

“Hmm…” Tom looked at me, arching an eyebrow.

“Those glasses…”

“Oh?” He took them off and looked at them. “They’re new. Do you like…”

I didn’t give him a chance to finish, pulling him in so I could shove my tongue in his mouth. He moaned, then pulled away, smirking at me. I was about to pull him down onto the ground so he could just lie down on top of me when the rain delay was called off. People flooded back into the stadium so we straightened ourselves out before the match resumed.

As I was getting myself settled, I looked up and found myself staring at a pair of binoculars which were pointed not at the players below or the sky over our heads but at me. The binoculars came down to reveal the woman we talked to this morning. She smiled, then raised her binoculars again.

“Hey Tom?”

“Yes, Carmen?”

“She’s back.” Tom looked at my face, then across court at her.

“I see that.” I turned to find Tom looking at me again, a curious smile on his lips.

I took Tom’s hand and slipped it into an opening in my dress, created by undoing the buttons that were closest to my panty line. Guiding his fingers between my legs, into my panties, I sighed then looked straight ahead. I took the picnic basket and let it rest gently in my lap, providing some cover for Tom’s hand.

I hadn’t forgotten Tom’s fantasy, whispered over the phone, of fingering me in the stands at Wimbledon. Of sliding his middle finger in and out of my core, drenching him with my juices, juices that he would lick off as easily as he would the sweet cream off a fresh English strawberry. He’d flick at my clit, at first idly and then with increasing strength until I could somehow come in a crowd full of people, without my face or anything else giving us away. I hadn’t forgotten, and neither had he.

We practiced. We actually practiced.

Every morning after waking and every evening before bedtime, since my arrival in London a few days ago, I’d find myself in the bathroom, innocently brushing my teeth or washing my face. This is where Tom would find me, quietly smiling as he waited for me to finish whatever I was doing. He’d slip one hand into my panties, then wrap the other around my throat. Gently, so I could look up and gaze at our reflection in the mirror, so I could practice coming under his touch, as quietly as I could. Whenever my face would began to crumple a little too much, or if I made a mistake and whimpered too loudly, he’d stop moving the finger that was massaging my clit, or pumping into my slick folds, or teasing my ass. And I would be so close, _so close_ , that I’d cry out whenever he stopped, giving me a minute to compose myself before he would start fingering me again. He would always let me come. Eventually. But if I looked too obvious when I did, I got a spanking. Which I loved. By this morning, by the time we made it to Wimbledon, we had practiced so much that I was nearly perfect.

Tom turned his head slightly, as though to follow Andy Murray’s movements throughout the match. But I could hear him panting, shallowly and quietly, as he teased my clit with his finger, then plucking at it between finger and thumb. My head was still, my eyes unwavering as our admirer watched Tom’s and my game unfold. Her eyes never left mine, her head never moved once, even as the heads of the spectators whipped from side to side, following the ball as it volleyed.

I had been wet for Tom almost as soon as we sat down, so it wasn’t long before my eyelids fluttered and I gave in to temptation a few times, biting my lip and whimpering silently. This could only last so long as Tom would stop whenever I did. Once I got my whimpering under control, I lost control of my hips as they jerked the closer I got to coming. Fortunately, the full skirt of my dress seemed to conceal his movement. His middle finger still pumped inside me, occasionally brushing a spot inside me that was so sensitive, and felt so delicious, I had to close my eyes.

And then Tom played his final, perhaps his best, stroke. As the woman kept looking at us and the crowd continued to ignore us, the movement of his thumb on my swollen clit was stronger. No more teasing, now his thumb followed the movements of the balls and the force at which it was hit by the players. If the ball was lobbed high, the pressure would lighten and I’d feel tiny circles on the tip. If it was hit hard, as if being served, or returned aggressively over the net, I’d feel his thumb press down. Tom and I were gasping when, during a particular vicious exchange, he took to tweaking my clit and pumping inside me so hard that at last I came, shuddering to a climax while the crowd around me stood up to cheer for the winner of that point.

When everybody sat back down, Tom slumped beside me. The strawberries and cream, half-eaten but still good, sat in our picnic basket. Tom licked his fingers before cleaning his hands properly with a moist towelette. He handed me the strawberries and cream, which I fed to him, my hands still shaking with the last delicate shudders of my climax.

“Who won that point?” I whispered, then rested my head on his shoulder.

Tom looked panicked for a second. “You know, I have absolutely no fucking idea.”

We laughed, catching the eye of the lady across the stadium. She raised her hands in front of her chest and clapped, softly for us.

I found the last strawberry, drew it through the cream, and placed it, lovingly, in Tom’s sweet mouth.


End file.
